


The angel of small death and the codeine scene

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The X-Files
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Crossover, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Russians gonna russ, Vodka, possibly AU for XF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:04:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a little Russian dive down in Brooklyn where they have really good pastries, Natasha unexpectedly runs into an old teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The angel of small death and the codeine scene

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MJ (mjr91)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/gifts), [JiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JiM/gifts).



> What is this I don't even--
> 
> One minute I was digesting my mushroom swiss cheesesteak, and the next I was thinking that Natasha and Alex really ought to meet in a bar and talk. Now they have. I stole the title from the song by Hozier, which always reminds me of the Black Widow.
> 
> I have shamelessly referred to one of my own fics for Alex's current situation. I guess I'll have to archive that here someday.

Natasha only went to the bar when she was feeling nostalgic and Russian, which were practically the same thing. It often hit her around Christmas, when all of Manhattan turned into one giant ornament and Tchaikovsky's music was everywhere. She escaped Manhattan, then, and sought out the Russian and Jewish corners of Brooklyn, areas that Steve probably knew fairly well in his time, and sidled into a little place where the vodka had names impronounceable to Americans and people were still talking about how good the pierogi were at the old Russian Tea Room.

She ordered a vodka to relax with and then tea, cabbage rolls, and a vatrushka from the overworked little kitchen downstairs. The rumble of conversation in English, Russian, and Yiddish did more to relax her than the vodka, and she actually stopped watching the exits when she got to the vatrushka. 

She was on her third cup from the samovar and still licking sweetness off her fingers when she saw him come in. The swirling black coat was a dead giveaway, an affectation he should have given up years ago. Of course he hadn't. So was his Russian--fluent, even idiomatic, but indelibly stamped with an American accent.

Natasha crossed her legs and palmed the knife out of her cute little suede boot. It went up the sleeve of her ridiculous fuzzy sweater patterned with frolicking reindeer and into the sheath on her wrist. Grabbing her jacket, she pulled on her fleece hat, which sported kitten ears, dropped cash on the table for the bill and a generous tip, and headed for the black-coated man at the bar.

She had to stand on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "Will you teach me how to serve the glorious Motherland better, senior comrade?" Her Russian, unlike his, had no accent.

The glass of vodka--on the rocks, how weak--stopped halfway to his lips. Something that might have been a chuckle escaped his lips, and he replied with the words he had spoken to her the first time they met, more than fifteen years ago.

"We have a greater cause to serve than just the Motherland, little comrade." He brought the glass to his mouth and sipped. "And the knife is in your right hand, Natalia."

She eased it back into the sheath and relaxed enough to let him turn around. His left hand was tucked into the pocket of his coat. "You still have a terrible accent, Comrade Krycek."

His moss-green eyes flicked over her a moment before warming. "And you're still the prettiest girl they ever turned out. Get a table with me?"

They sat down at a booth in the back, remote even by Natasha's standards. She took off her hat but waved away Krycek's offer of a drink. "I've been here a while, had something to eat. I saw you come in."

"You have sugar right there--" One gloved forefinger pointed and almost touched. "Are the vatrushka here good?"

"They're fabulous. How are you, Alexei?"

"Just Alex now. And I'm good." He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table. "Very good."

"Can I ask where you're living?"

He actually grinned. "Kroeber, Oregon. I'd say it's a one-horse town, but I don't think we have any horses."

She cocked her head at him. "Kroeber."

"I teach history. And coach high school basketball." He was smiling so broadly that she would have thought he was lying, if she'd been talking to anyone else. In Alex Krycek's case, he was a much better liar than this.

"If you think you might want to relocate sometime soon," he went on, "we've got plenty of room. And Principal Beaton could use a new administrative assistant."

Natasha ran through several different possible responses to this and settled on, "We?"

"Mulder and I. We share a place with Dr. and Mr. Skinner. Sheriff Skinner, I should say. And my--niece, Emily Melissa." He drummed his fingers on the table again, this time in a pattern she recognized.

Natasha sat silent for a moment. It was, she supposed, a viable option. He obviously had backup, but then, so did she. He even looked happy, really. He looked terrific for a man in his fifties, as trim as ever, his black hair going attractively silver. And his eyes were at least a little warm when he looked at her.

"I think I could use another drink," she said, leaning forward and smiling. "So tell me, Sasha--you haven't seen *another* one-armed man who speaks Russian, have you?"


End file.
